


Clothing Doesn't Make the Man

by locketofyourhair



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint’s pretty sure that no one realized that for this party, normal Midgardian clothes were almost gauche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothing Doesn't Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo, prompt dressup. This is essentially gen, with some hints of Clint/Bruce towards the end.

Clint isn’t comfortable in Stark’s world. There’s too many flashy cars and people with their double speak. There’s lecherous old dudes who have never had to go hungry, and pretty women and men that don’t have anything but dollar signs in their eyes. Most of the time, it’s like being on the job, in dead heat of the absolute worst shit people can do with a smile on their faces. 

He dabbles in the world because it’s good for the Avengers and because Tony’s given them a place to crash when they’re not out saving the world. 

Clint would gladly schmooze with the richest, evilest bastards Tony knows if it meant he could get into some real pants again. He feels like he can’t fucking move. 

Thor invited them to some belated celebration to the Allfather’s reawakening from the Odin Sleep, only he’d made it sound a lot more grave than all that. It sounded kind of stupid, honestly, but Thor got that look on his face when they all hesitated, all “I came to your celebration of fallen warriors and roasted meats with you. We drank into the night and told stories of the fallen’s glory.” 

And since Jane and Heimdall managed to get the Bifrost working, it’s not like it’s dangerous for them travel to Asgard anymore. 

Clint’s pretty sure that no one realized that for this party, normal Midgardian clothes were almost gauche. Thor forgot to mention it until they were being ushered off to the baths and then to grim faced royal clothiers who had the interesting problem of dressing persons at least a head shorter than most Asgardians. 

He looks ridiculous. They’ve got him in a huge coat, big and sweeping with more leather straps and metal badges that he can figure out. His boots are heavy and way too warm on his feet. It’s all in shades of burnished golds and dark, dark burgundies. He looks like he escaped some sort of creepy state fair where everyone eats meat on sticks. 

“You may go,” the clothier says. She’s easily a foot taller than Clint, taller than Thor and both of her assistants. “Thor waits for you.”

Clint nods, and he manages to creep out of the room. His clothes feel lighter when he gets moving, the fit a little better when he’s coming into the hall. Maybe it’s the magic that makes Thor’s sleeves appear and disappear at will. 

The thought cheers him, though he still hates the coat and all the straps. He could not easily draw a gun in this outfit, let alone firing a bow. 

“I feel ridiculous,” he announces when he finds Thor. Thor has sleeves again and his cape, a winged helmet under his arm. “You owe me a night of drinking for this.”

“You do not like your garments?” Thor asks. His eyes are bright, and it takes Clint a minute to figure out that Thor is _laughing at him_. Thor is a hard nut to crack most of the time. His weird way of speaking and lack of human context make him miss a lot of things, and it’s rare to understand his sense of humor. 

But the bastard is fucking laughing right now. 

“You’re an asshole.” Clint punches Thor in the arm. It’s like punching a brick wall, but he doesn’t care. 

Thor grins and shakes his head. “You appear as a warrior.”

“I’d rather be in a tux.” Clint grumbles, and that’s when Bruce appears. 

His clothing is just as ridiculous as Clint’s, the pants just as tight and made of the strange heavy fabric that isn’t quite leather. He isn’t wearing a coat, exactly, but rather a weird almost vest with sashes and buckles. There’s a knotwork on the vest, and it shines green and gold in the light of the torches. 

Bruce looks as uncomfortable as Clint feels, but he somehow doesn’t look half as ridiculous. His clothes cling to his thin frame, defining his figure instead of overwhelming it like most of his clothes back home do. 

He smiles sheepishly and pulls at one of the buckles. “They said this was okay.” He looks at Clint and then slides his eyes over to Thor. “They’re going to give us our clothes back, right?”

“These are for you, for being friends of Asgard,” Thor says kindly. “You cannot return such finery without insulting my father’s generosity.” 

Bruce tugs at another buckle. “I’m not sure how I’m going to get this off, Thor.”

Clint has a moment to remember the weird fabrics under his own outfit, the soft almost-silk against his skin. He wonders if Bruce’s is green or gold, and if it is as thin as Clint’s own. He can almost imagine Bruce’s chest through that sheen of fabric, still in the tight pants that hug his thighs and ass, like some sort of hero on a romance novel. 

“I’ll help you figure it out,” he says, and it’s a little more... suggestive than he means it. 

Bruce gives him a shy smile and then shakes his head. “At least yours doesn’t look that ridiculous.”

“Oh, you have not seen what they have planned for the man of iron,” Thor says, and his tone is positively evil. “This is nothing.” 

Clint has to grin, and he reaches over to straighten one of Bruce’s straps. “This I have to see.”


End file.
